


The Color of Insanity

by itsreallylaterightnow



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Awesome James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Awesome May Parker (Spider-Man), Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, I put the boys through it in this one, James "Rhodey" Rhodes is a Good Bro, Medical Experimentation, Medical Torture, Non-Graphic Self Harm, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Protective May Parker (Spider-Man), Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Suicidal Thoughts, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Torture, suicide ideology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:48:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29796981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsreallylaterightnow/pseuds/itsreallylaterightnow
Summary: Peter Parker is taken to the raft and placed in a white room. Hallucinations attack him - a plague he cannot get rid of. One that marks everything - even rescue. How can he trust that he is no longer in that prison when his mind has been playing tricks on him for months?
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Michelle Jones (mentioned), Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 20
Kudos: 91
Collections: 2021 Irondad Sprint Event





	The Color of Insanity

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends! Thanks for making it to the 2021 Irondad Whump Spring Sprint Event... could I have chosen a shorter name? Yes. Did I do it? No! I hope you enjoy my addition to this event! 
> 
> Prompts Used:  
> -Instability  
> -Cracked  
> -Double Vision  
> -Eyes Open  
> -Dark  
> -Hoarse  
> -Numb
> 
> Warnings below (contains spoilers!!)
> 
> -  
> -  
> -
> 
> Non-Graphic self-harm: Peter hits himself to see color again since he has been in a white room for months, he wants to see the bruises.  
> Suicidal thoughts.  
> Non-Graphic depictions of medical experimentation and physical torture

It was all white. Everything. Peter lost all sense of time. In the beginning, when they’d grabbed him from Mr. Delmar’s, he would count the number of times they brought his meals. But as the times seemed to vary in their consistency, and the white walls and the white vest and the white lights and the white rice all melded together he completely lost the ability to hold his time. 

Peter shivered, curling in on himself once more. He looked around the room, his mind a desperate wheel of want. He never thought about how much he could miss color, and noise, and touch, and smell, and taste. 

But without any of those, without any senses or pleasure, he found life was utterly pointless. 

Peter hadn’t seen a single person since they’d forced him into the white jumpsuit and tossed him in the room. It locked from the outside, leaving Peter without so much as a door to look at. They left him a bowl of white rice at sem-regular times. It wasn’t enough for his metabolism. Peter could feel his jumpsuit getting larger and larger on him, until it simply hung off his frame in a sad form. 

He played games in his head to keep his sanity. He would recount all the people he could name. He stared with family members. His parents, extended family, aunts and uncles he had never met. Then he moved to people at school. Every classmate whose name and face he could put together. The room was padded - sound proofed. His talking was muffled and stiff. 

He tried singing to himself, but it didn’t scratch the itch. He needed to hear a sound. A real sound. Something that reverberated and echoed and hurt his ears. He needed  _ something.  _

It wasn’t until Peter found himself sitting in the room, tucked away into the corner and screaming - as loud as his hoarse voice would allow him to, that he realized it was all taking a toll on him. 

Peter shut up and pushed his head as hard as he could into the wall behind him. It was padded, soft without being gentle. Peter tried to run his hands on the floor, get a feel of something other than the white fabric. 

His breathing was short and harsh. Peter grabbed his legs, and began to squeeze. Tighter and tighter until it pinched and hurt and he was certain he was bruising himself. 

His heart skipped a beat. If he was bruised - it would be colorful. Purple and yellow and maybe some green and blue. Peter reached for the pant’s leg and began to pull it up - desperate to see color. He’d lost so much weight that the stiff fabric of the jumpsuit was easy to pull up. Peter’s thighs were mottled colors. His breathing hitched as tears formed in his eyes. Peter ran his fingers gently over top of the purple bruises. He’d felt something other than the numbness - the insanity that was setting in. 

That night, as he shoved his head between his elbow in an effort to sleep without the LEDs shining into his eyes, he would poke at his bruises, hoping that by the time he woke up the next day they would be more colors. 

* * *

Peter never heard the guards come into the room. It wasn’t until he felt the prick of a needle in his neck that his eyes shot open. Peter tried to scramble backwards, but he was already pressed into the wall. The contents of the shot burned and itched, Peter wanted to reach up - to scratch his neck - but he found himself unable to move his hands. He blinked his heavy eyelids, his double vision staring at four men in hazmat suits, looking down at him. 

He wasn’t able to get any words out before the world went dark.

* * *

Peter woke up with a sinking feeling in his gut. His mind was slow, unable to process anything other than the tightness. His arms were bound, wrapped across his chest. Restrained behind his back. 

_ Straight jacket.  _

A fun thought he used to have. Magicians who could somehow escape from straightjackets at the last moment before they drowned or got run over by a train. 

It wasn’t fun now. 

He tried to roll over, his legs still numb and his arms trapped and all he could think of was Toomes and the warehouse and he could lifts tons and tons of concrete from his back, but no matter how much he pulled or writhed around on the floor, he couldn’t get the straps off of him and he couldn’t breath and maybe it was the drugs or maybe it was the panic but the darkness grabbed him and pulled him under, much to his relief. 

* * *

The hours seemed to meld together. He would sit against the wall. 

White

White 

White

He would try and talk, but his voice was leaving him. 

He was exhausted. Truly. Deeply. To his core. 

His mind felt numb and frantic. He thought about a project he had seen once, of how scientists had given spiders different substances to see how they’d react. He remembers the webs - how they went from uniform and unique, perfect things of beauty and math. But the substances made the spider’s webs sporadic and without pattern. It looked painful and harsh. 

It looked exactly how Peter’s mind felt. 

* * *

The problem with hallucinations was that he didn’t realize he was hallucinating until he was too far in. Until the visions and sounds brought him hope and light. Until he was thoroughly convinced it was real and happening. Until the moment he woke up felt like a gavel slamming onto a podium. The realization that his mind was failing him. 

It started when he was almost asleep. The exhaustion was heavier now. Less like needing a nap and more like melting away into the ground. 

“Peter?” His eyes shot open as he looked around wildly. It was May’s voice. 

“May?” His voice was broken and it hurt to use. 

Silence surrounded him, leaching through the walls and into his mind. Peter let out a shaking gasp, falling back against the padded wall in defeat. 

“I’m going insane.” He felt tears forming in his eyes. He knew they could break his body. But he never would have imagined they would be able to break his mind. 

* * *

Once the first hallucination starts, the floodgates open and his mind is the wasteland. 

Every breath sounded like Ned’s laugh. Every cough was Michelle throwing a quip at him. If he closed his eyes, Tony was standing above him - an arm outstretched, ready to take him home. He couldn’t fall asleep without visions of May, her calling out to him. Asking where he was or why he left her. 

Peter cried all of his tears. He stopped responding to the visions. Stopped caring about the laughs or the smiles. He couldn’t respond, not without the realization of being alone slamming into him like a train. 

So he sat. Silently in the white room. Laying against the wall. Unable to hold himself up any longer. 

He sat and he stared at the White

White 

White 

* * *

By the time the men in the hazmat suits walked into the room, Peter had grown so used to seeing visions - visions of him escaping, of Tony rescuing him, and May holding him tightly - that he didn’t bother to flinch from where he was laying. 

The men just looked at one another before grabbing under each of his arms, lifting him up, and dragging him towards where the door was open. 

Peter certainly hadn’t expected the hallucinations to grow so much in their realism, but he just watched as he was dragged through the open door, down a grey hallway - what a strange thing other colors were - pulled into a darker room. He was detached. Watching as someone else was lifted onto the silver table. Watching as straps were pulled tightly across the boy’s body - his legs and arms and chest and chin. He hated the bad hallucinations. The ones where he watched Ben die over and over, or Michelle left him, or he had to try and run fast enough to save Ned but never quite made it in time. 

This - this was a bad hallucination. 

Men in lab coats stood over him, and began to cut and saw and prod. Peter thought he heard someone screaming, but he no longer trusted his hearing. 

Something sharp jabbed his left eye and his vision went dark on that side. Peter felt tears falling - warm and sticky. He wanted to tell his brain that it was time to wake up, time to be done with this illusion.

Something cracked in his head and Peter’s mind went dark. 

* * *

He was back in the white room. Just like he knew he would be. In the straight jacket. No noise, no smell, no touch, no taste. Nothing but the pain that reverberated throughout his entire being. His skull pounded and he felt the pull of stitches. His left eye must have been shut, because he still couldn’t see out of it. He felt cuts and bruises all over. Peter had broken enough ribs in the past to be able to tell that something was wrong in his chest. 

He began to close his eyes. He wasn’t interested in his mind’s games anymore. He wasn’t interested in the illusions of pain or escape that always seemed to drag on for far too long. So he opted just to rest. 

* * *

A resounding, shaking explosion woke him. Peter’s breathing caught as he peeled his right eye open as far as he could muster. Peter remembers once, when May’s old cat was dying. The yellow cat had tucked into the corner of May’s closet, resigned to be alone. Peter had begged May to please let him hold her, but May had just hushed him. 

_ “Baby, sometimes when its an animal's time to go, they choose to hide out, to be alone. They can tell they aren’t going to make it, and they have come to peace with that. We have to respect her wishes.”  _

Peter didn’t understand it then, but he did now. For the longest time that he was in that god-forsaken white room, he’d convinced himself Tony would bust him out. That he would go home and everything would be okay. But as he listened to the explosions and the yelling, he felt like that old orange cat. There was no fear. Just sadness and peace. He would die in that room, probably by the end of the day. And he wouldn’t be afraid any more. 

Peter felt himself grinning. He wouldn’t be in pain or afraid, and the idea of that relief had him counting down the moments to when he would close his eyes once and for all. 

“Peter!” Tony. His mind seemed to lock in on Tony when it came to rescue hallucinations. But Peter had grown accustomed to ignoring them. “No - no - no! Come on, buddy… I need you to look at me.” 

Hands were roaming over his body, his chest, his hair, his face. Peter winced when it bumped into something tender on his head. 

“Sam - get the damn jacket off of him. I need oxygen and fluids stat!” Hm, that was peculiar. Rhodey and Sam were never part of his hallucinations before. 

Hands worked on the straps of the jacket behind him, and illusion or not - the relief of his arms finally being free was palpable. His shoulders screamed in pain as they moved from the position they’d been held in for so long. Peter felt people contorting his body until he was free of the jacket. He figured when he came to, and he found himself still locked in, it would be absolutely miserable, but he chose to revel in the relief for as long as he could. 

“Get the line started. I want to run antibiotics to help fight off infections. Where’s my gurney?” 

It was all so loud, it almost felt real. More solid than any of the other hallucinations Peter was used to. 

Peter felt a hand slide into his and he jerked his arm to his side, ignoring the pain it brought. The sensation of touch… It was so alien to him. 

“Hey, it's alright Pete. We’ve got you, alright?” Tony’s voice was rumbling and heavy. Peter took a choking breath. His chest was heavy. The strain of breathing was exerting more energy than Peter had. “Hey, can you open your eyes for me?” Tony asked. 

Peter hated himself. He hated that he was unable to resist them. Every time the hallucinations reached out, he couldn’t stop himself from responding. So he opened his eyes, knowing that Tony wouldn’t be there. Knowing he would just end up back in the white-white-white room with the jacket and more pain. 

But he did it anyway. Peter peeled his right eye open, his left still felt too tight and painful and swollen. 

Peter blinked heavily. Tony was leaning above him, his helmet retracted into his suit. His dark eyes looking down at Peter with blatant concern. Peter caught glimpses of Mr. Rhodes and Sam … others were moving around, but Peter could only manage to focus on Mr. Stark. 

“Hey, there you are.” Tony gave Peter a sad smile. 

“Tones, put this on him.” Rhodey handed Mr. Stark something, and Peter felt the man gently turning his head and placing a mask over his mouth. Peter didn’t like it - he wanted it gone, but then he heard a small hiss and he felt air pushing into his lungs. Peter gulped on the air in relief as he began to cough - aggravating his lungs. Peter winced, throwing his head back as pain erupted. 

A hand rested on his shoulders, holding him still. 

“Be still, Peter. Slow breaths, alright? It sounds like you’ve got a lot of liquid in your lungs, so do your best just to breath and relax.” Peter closed his eyes again. He felt hands on his side, someone bracing his head as a voice counted. Peter wanted to cry out, but his energy reserves were empty. The hands turned him on his side, placing something firm and cold on his back. They laid him back down. People began moving again, something pricked his arm. Someone began to pull straps firmly across his chest. 

Peter felt his chest tighten. The last time he was strapped down the only thing he’d felt was pain and fear. Peter opened his eye and began to strain against the ties, ignoring the pain it caused as he tried to get away from the men in white. 

“Woah, woah, Peter!”

“Damnit, he’s going to hurt himself - get him to calm down, Tony.” 

“Peter.” One calm voice in the midst of the chaos. Someone that Peter knew would never hurt him. “I need you to be still. You’re safe now, alright? We are about to get you to the QuinJet, and then we’ll be home.” 

Peter bit his lip, a chill running up and down his spine. He wasn’t going anywhere. Any moment now, he would wake up. And he would want nothing more than to be back in this illusion. With people caring for him. Gentle touches and voices that he hadn’t felt in… he didn ‘t know how long. 

“He’s burning up. We need to get him to Helen. I don’t like the look of his stats.” 

There was more talking above him, but Peter felt his mind giving out. He was cold and tired and in so much pain. Peter let his head go limp as a neck brace was fitted around him. 

“You take a break for a bit, buddy. We’ll be here when you wake up.” Tony’s voice was calm, Peter desperately wanted to believe it.

Peter didn’t want to close his eyes - didn’t want this to go away. He looked at Tony desperately, reaching a shaking hand up to touch the man’s face. 

Peter had so much he wanted to say, but the darkness took him away before he had the chance to. 

* * *

“...infected - start him on - kid has to be in so much pain.” 

“Stark, I found the files they kept on him. It-it doesn’t look good.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Extreme solitary confinement. He hasn’t… he hasn’t had human interaction for the past four months. He’s lost twenty-six pounds he couldn’t afford to lose…” 

“What?” 

“It's a lot. Focus on him now, I’ll get Friday to send this to Cho so she can…” 

Something prodded at the stitches on the side of his head and Peter groaned. It stopped, and a gentle hand rested on Peter’s shoulder. 

“Hey, Pete. You with me, pal?” That was Sam. 

“S’m?” Peter couldn’t muster the strength to open his eyes. 

“Yeah, bud. Listen, we’re a ways out from the compound. Your aunt is coming, said she’d bring your two friends. Ned and Michelle? Everyone’s real happy to have you home.”

Peter choked on a sob. “I’m n’t… can’t go home.” Peter bit his lip, annoyed at having to talk around the oxygen tank, annoyed that he was going to wake up and be in that stupid white room. Ready to be left in peace - left to make his decision that the old orange cat. 

“You’re on your way home, kid. Are you in pain? Do we need to up the pain meds?” 

Peter’s heart leapt at the idea of drugs. He hated the sedation, the way the liquid burned as it coursed through his veins and flowed throughout his body. There was a frantic beeping beside his head but all Peter could do was shift on the gurney, trying to get away from all of the noise and drugs and pain. 

“Alright, hey - calm down. No more painkillers. You choose when, alright? I just want you to be comfortable, alright?” 

“It doesn’t matter.” Peter’s voice was sharp - sharper than he’d intended it to be. Even though Sam wasn’t really there, Peter hated to be rude to someone who was treating him with so much kindness. 

“Why not?” Sam’s voice was gentle, but firm. 

Peter, frustration boiling, finally opened his right eye, finding Sam’s dark ones. Peter knew the others were watching them, but he couldn’t bring himself to focus on anyone other than Sam. 

“It’s not…” He hated acknowledging it, but Sam’s face was expectant - unwavering. “It’s not real. I’m going to-to wake up and be back in the wh… in the room. And I’m going to be alone, and it doesn’t matter…” Peter didn’t realize he was sobbing until he found himself barely able to catch a breath. “It doesn’t matter. They aren’t coming - no one… no one is coming. I’m all alone - the orange cat. Just like the orange cat…” 

“Sam, his vitals are too high. You’ve got to calm him down.” 

A hand grabbed Peter’s own, and he knew it was Tony. But it just made him cry harder. Nothing made sense anymore. 

“Hey, Peter - I need you to look at me.” 

Peter turned his head, making eye contact with Mr. Stark. 

“This is real. We are here, we found you - finally. It took too long… I’m so sorry. We have been searching since... I haven’t stopped. But this is real. I swear to you.” 

“I-its not! It's not real!” 

“Peter - hallucinations can’t touch you. They can’t hold your hand like I am. I know this is hard, but I swear to you, I am real.” As if to emphasize his point, Tony squeezed hard on Peter’s hand. “I’ll be here when you wake up. We are going to the compound, and May and Happy and Michelle and Ned are coming. Everyone will be there just for you. Go to sleep, and if you wake up, and we are at the compound then it will prove that I’m telling the truth, right?” Tony was desperate, Peter could see it all over the man’s face. 

Peter felt the exhaustion of sleep tugging at him once more. “Mr. Stark?” Hallucination or not, Peter needed him to know… if he was going to do what the orange cat did, he had to tell Mr. Stark. “I thought every day… every day I thought about you breaking me out. I always knew you’d come. I thought maybe I… maybe I wouldn’t be there when you did. But I never gave up on you. May… I missed her so much. I need you to tell her that.” Peter’s lip trembled as he took in a shuddering breath, a cough being torn from his jagged lungs. 

“You’ll tell her yourself.” Tony insisted, and Peter could swear the man’s voice sounded thicker.

“Just in case… in case I don’t.” Peter felt himself falling into the delves of sleep. Mr. Stark gripping his hand like a vice, he could only hope he wouldn’t wake up alone in that cursed room. 

* * *

He was shivering… but his face was so hot. Peter remembers once how he turned on his bath, and touched his hand to the water, testing the temperature. It had been so cold that he stared at the knob, confused. And in a horrible second, the water went from freezing to scalding hot - burning his fingers as he jerked his hand back. 

Uncle Ben later explained that sometimes, when something was really hot, the brain was tricked into thinking it was cold until given the chance to catch up. 

Peter turned his head, grunting as he tried to understand. Was he too hot or too cold? He wasn’t in pain - not too much pain. He felt more uncomfortable than anything else. 

“Peter?” 

Everything seemed to rush back to his mind. 

A crossroads that he stood at. 

He was going to open his eyes. 

Peter’s last conversation with Mr. Stark was seared into his mind. 

He would open his eyes and one of two things would happen. 

One - it would be white. And blinding and sharp and Peter figured he might have a panic attack and finally beg that the people in white kill him. That he had reached the end of the rope - admittedly a rope that was much longer than he initially thought it would be. 

Two - the voice that he knew was Aunt May’s would be connected to a person. A real person. Someone with long, dark hair and olive skin and warm eyes. Someone with cold hands and a vanilla smell. Someone that Peter leaned on - the roots of his life. The person who never failed to make him cry because with one look she always knew exactly what he was thinking, and exactly what to say to make it better. 

If it was option number two… Peter was unsure exactly what he was meant to do with himself. It would mean that Mr. Stark had been right all along. That everything had been real and that he was out of that wretched place. 

“Honey?” Her voice again. A hand reaching out in the cold, begging him to come to her. 

Peter swallowed, ignoring the pain surrounding him. 

He opened his eyes, surprised that he could use both of them. 

And directly in front of him, in the light that was seeping through the window - was Aunt May. She was crying, massive tears leaking down her face as she reached her hands out, cupping Peter’s cheeks. 

“Oh, hey baby.” Her lips trembled and May leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. 

Peter took a breath to speak, but he began coughing. Hacking as he felt something stuck in his throat. May held a petri dish in front of him, removing the oxygen mask so that he could spit out the gunk. When he could breathe again, she helped him lay back down, but all Peter could do was grasp onto her. His hands latched onto her shoulders until he’d pulled her tightly to his chest. 

“May...May…” He could only repeat the word as she ran her hands through his hair, climbing up beside him.

“You’re home. You’re home.” Peter didn’t know if she was saying it to herself, or to him. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care that his body still felt slow and exhausted. Didn’t care that the heat and cold had set off something on his insides - that he knew he was desperately sick. 

All he cared about was that he was home, and Aunt May was there, and that was all that mattered. 

* * *

It had been a month. A month since Mr. Stark had burst into the raft - apparently where Peter had been held. He never would have guessed that he was on a giant boat floating in the Atlantic ocean. 

Colonel Rhodes and Ms. Potts were in the middle of court against Secretary Ross and the raft. Apparently they had more than enough footage to put anyone involved with that hellhole so far into prison that they would never see the light of day again. 

They won. 

Peter was out. 

And every single day felt like a loss. Every single time Peter opened his eyes, for a split-second before he did he thought… this is the time. This is the time he wakes up and finds out that this was all in his head. That he was officially insane - the white had taken over his mind. Bleached his thoughts until they were a jumbled mess of pain and torture. 

Peter blinked, shaking his head a bit as he stared at the wall in front of him. May had been called to speak at a conference in Rhode Island about her charity. Peter watched as she read the email, her eyes cutting to him as she chewed her lip. Peter rarely left her side since he’d been excused from the MedBay. If he wasn’t with May, he was with Happy or Ned or Michelle. He couldn’t be alone. He was constantly listening to music or seeking out noise or touch or smell. Peter felt like he’d been chewing gum for the past month - relying on the ment just to reassure him that he could taste. 

Peter had suggested that he could stay with Mr. Stark, and with one text he confirmed with the man that he would be with him for the weekend his aunt was gone. 

“Pete? Wanna toss me the drill bit beside you?” Mr. Stark was bent over Dum-ee working on fixing the robot’s arm - a previous lab accident had been unkind to the little robot. 

“Oh - yeah. Sure.” Peter handed Mr. Stark the bit, before sitting back down. He was still recovering. The months of nutrition deficiency, the pneumonia, and the infection all took their toll on his body. He could sit in the lab with Tony, handing him the occasional tool, but too much strain and Peter felt as though he would keel over. 

“Care to share what’s going on behind those eyes?” Mr. Stark’s tone was gentle, but the weight behind his statement didn’t escape Peter. Those months weren’t just hard on Peter. He got texts or calls from Mr. Stark daily - “just checking in” the older man would say, but Peter heard the truth behind the words. “I needed to make sure you’re actually safe. That I’m not dreaming, only to wake up and find out you’re still gone.” it was the same phone call Peter made to Ned, Michelle, and Mr. Stark on a daily basis - so of course he understood. 

“I um…” Peter closed his eyes for a moment - placing his thoughts on a scale. He could be honest, and risk scaring Mr. Stark or he could hide it - a common choice he made, but one he often regretted. “Every time I close my eyes, I am paralyzed with the fear that I’m going to wake up to white. Every single night, I go to sleep wondering if tomorrow morning I’ll wake up to the realization that I have officially lost my mind. That they’ve broken me so much that I will never again be able to trust myself.” Peter felt tears leaking down his cheeks, his hands shaking as he looked down at the floor. “I want to be happy and relieved - but I just feel terrified, and I don’t … I don’t know how to get better - if I just knew how to get better I would. But this isn’t a broken arm or a stab wound - it's my mind. How do you fix a broken mind?” Peter let his hands fall freely to his sides. 

Mr. Stark was still, watching Peter with warm eyes, until he knew he was done talking. “Peter, I know they really screwed with you in there. I know that the things they put you through are things most people wouldn’t come back from. I know that you can’t trust your mind right now, and hell - that’s the scariest feeling in the world. I also know there are going to be moments that you are gripped in fear. That opening your eyes seems like the worst thing you could do. But I need you to trust me. Me. Trust that I am telling the truth. Trust that May is telling the truth. When we say that you are safe, we mean it. Lean on us. It  _ will  _ be hard. But as days turn to weeks to months to years, you’ll find that the fear shrinks and shrinks until it is barely a speck of dust in that genius mind.” 

Peter looked at Mr. Stark. At the solidity of him. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, sniffling. He knew that the older man was right. It would be hard. It would be terrifying. It would be worth it. Worth growing up alongside Ned and MJ. Worth being with May and hearing her laugh and tasting her disgusting food. Worth working in the lab with Mr. Stark. Blowing up chemistry experiments and fixing broken robots. Worth being around the people he loved. It would be tears and sobs and smiles and broken laughter. Peter may not be able to hold himself up all of the time, but he was surrounded with people that he could lean on when he needed a reminder of the reality that he was in. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please leave a comment or kudos! It would mean a lot!!! <3 
> 
> come visit me on Tumblr @itsreallylaterightnow


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